


Valentine Triptych

by Zigzagwanderer



Series: A Soft Hoodwink of Shadows [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Domestic, Hannibal Loves Will, Heartbreak, Supernatural Elements, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer
Summary: Three pieces about love, hastily put together for Valentine's Day, because someone asked me a question this morning about it!. From the viewpoint of Hannibal, Will and Gally from the 'Monster' AU.





	1. Hannibal.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectraRhodes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/gifts).



_(This one is set before the events at Ffynnon Ddu.)_

They had passed each other, just one time, in a corridor. Too bright, too featureless. The highly-polished surfaces of Quantico, reflecting inadequacies, encouraging the baring of souls.

Hannibal was partaking of a pleasant unease. The novelty, perhaps, of sitting down to tea at the gamekeeper’s table.  
And poor fare it was indeed.

He had been thanked for consulting on an entirely mediocre cult murder on the coast, and after signing off the paperwork, Crawford had courteously chosen to walk him out. Hannibal had found nothing during the investigation to further his own specific research, no evidence of legitimate worship or sacrifice, and his assistance in finding the all-too human perpetrators had been offhand at best.  
It had, however, been amusingly successful from the FBI's point of view.

So, the director was disposed to be avuncular. To pass a few remarks about talent, and mutually beneficial relationships. Hannibal told him he would think about it, that he was flattered to be asked to ‘join the team’, while privately shuddering at the thought of endless plastic cups, sloshing with lukewarm dishwater. 

And of course, there was the consideration that Hannibal’s own, very personal tastes did not stop at oolong; that the man so charmingly complimenting him on his exquisite tailoring was actually trying to work out exactly what it camouflaged.  
That Hannibal was fond of his freedom.

So, they strolled towards the lobby, fencing companionably.

“Will?”  
The younger man hardly looked up as he walked around the corner in front of them. 

“Will?” Crawford repeated, gripping a large fistful of weather-washed corduroy. “What the hell? I told you to take a day off the case. It was an order.”  
Hannibal was reminded of an event he had once attended at Pimlico. How the owners had regarded their thoroughbreds. With a combination of callousness and commercially-driven care.

Will Graham shifted his eyes up and across. To Hannibal. 

“I’m not here to please you, Jack. I’m here because I can finally see why they’re picked out. Why they’re cut the way they are.” He nearly choked. “I mean…the…the families.” The profiler shook a mess of sweaty curls aside, and thrust trembling hands deeper into shapeless pockets.

Unhealthy. Twitching. Borderline dissociative. 

Hannibal stopped smiling to himself. 

The sudden _ache_ of it.  
The stab of longing, which instantly rendered everything else _incomplete_.

His own, singular existence, his indulgences and passions were suddenly of no consequence. He had guided the hands of murderers, he had feasted upon the unworthy, he had observed _gods_ , first-hand, at their bestial play, but every experience seemed for nought, when compared to being the recipient of that one, foggy, pain-saturated glance. 

Jack Crawford made a distracted introduction which was entirely ignored by all participants.  
“Well,” he spread his hands. “As you’re here, despite my concerns, I guess I’d better hear what you have.”  
He turned apologetically to Hannibal. Will was staring disinterestedly at the wall, biting his fingernails. Hannibal excused himself handsomely, and all but staggered to his Bentley. 

Seer or sympathetically sociopathic?  
Hannibal had heard the rumours.  
Had attended the lectures.  
Had even, in a way both uncharacteristically maladroit and ill-mannered, tried to meet Jack’s pocket prophet socially.

Hannibal calmly gripped the steering wheel with both hands.  
He had never wanted anyone, _anything_ , before this.

He knew he could reach out and take it.

He knew it was something he must never have.

Will Graham. 

Will. Graham. 

It would mean the undoing of everything. The beginning of a life, but not the life he had sketched out for himself, lonely, but full of a terrible wonder. There would be no room, no reason for revenge. 

And Will would be, Hannibal knew instinctively, the one to finally _see_ him, and he could only imagine how that would end.

Hannibal allowed himself one small moment of deception. One where Will Graham was not already a family man, one where Will Graham was not disgusted when he looked inside Hannibal.

One moment where they found a mutual darkness which would join them together forever.

Then, with the incisive skill of a surgeon, the brute force of a butcher, Hannibal Lecter made a decision in favour of self-preservation, and in order to do so, broke his own, too-fragile heart.


	2. Abigail.

Being born. Remembrances of leaving the sweet dark.  
Change. Free. Confined. Free again, yet still confined. Condensed.

Everything went from being simple to being very complicated.  
Difficult. Understanding everything, understanding nothing.

Because of Mother; Crying. Inside, never really stopping. Complication. Confusion. Struggling. Screaming. You Little Monster.

Then Daddy came. Pain and power inside, like me. Simple, like me. Understanding peace.  
Fish from a river, cooked over a fire. A running dog. Books.  
He is afraid. Of me. For me. Because of me. But he tries to help me exist. 

Wondering; how can things be simple again?  
I made things simple again.

Just Daddy now. Peace.  
Star-gazing. Not brushing our hair at the weekend. Books. 

Now Hans too. (Daddy says Hannibal. Daddy says _Oh, my Sweetheart, my Darling_.)  
Wearing a person-suit, like me.

Although his is _fig-urr-ative_. Not _lit-err-al_.  
Tricky and knotty and twisty human. Teacher. He tries to help me grow. Understanding safety. Sweetly dark. Smoothing away complication. The opposite of Mother. 

“Gally, stop staring into space. And six hunks of halva is way enough, don’t you think, hun? You already had cake for dessert.”  
“I have an unusual metabolism, Dad. As a consequence I need to replenish my energy levels frequently and exponentially. So…maybe two more pieces?” I add hopefully.  
Hans and Daddy look at each other. They put down their wine glasses and start to laugh. Daddy laughs and laughs, then pulls me over to sit on his lap, tickling. Hans crinkles his eyes at me and pushes over the tray of sweetmeats. They smile at me, at each other. 

I think I just understood what love is.


	3. Will.

A psychologist back in Baltimore once, very kindly, told me how love works. 

Love, Alana said, is something sure, and solid; something safe.

It is a stronghold. Built up out of everyday affections, cemented with a shared pressure towards community, towards society. Stable and _right_ , she said.

And, don’t get me wrong, I love the Gally I can take to the beach. Surfing alongside the other kids, sometimes sharing out her sandy, paper-wrapped turnovers. Sleeping on my shoulder, all salt and cinnamon freckles. Dreaming of dolphins. 

And, sure, I love to sit around and play chess with Hannibal, having just a regular night in, charming him with my unexpected classicism. He is oddly fierce, wild even, taught games by a father who was taught by his father, in firelight and below crossed swords.  
He ruffles his perfect hair out of place, not knowing, for a change, who will win. The outcome, later, is tender, yet abandoned, as befits a committed couple. 

This, Alana would tell me, had she not written me off a long time ago, is love.

But Hannibal and Gally do not care, really, for sharing, I would reply. For regularity. For society. 

They are the world-burners. They were born with a mount and a lance of steel. They are the destroyers.

And I do not love them any the less for it. And I will stand in the bloody wake of their charge. 

Because love is not meant to be safe. It is the thing that breaches the stronghold, that lays waste to solidity. It is the gap in the wall, the crack in the foundations.

It is the door held open, which I gladly go through.  
Even though there is darkness on the other side. And madness is waiting.

For that madness, poor, dear, deluded Alana…is love.


End file.
